


Amnesiac on the run

by chaichild



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Past Domestic Violence, Past Torture, Past Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaichild/pseuds/chaichild
Summary: He wants to remember. She wants to forget.Or, Bucky Barnes is a lost puppy while the woman that's keeping him safe turns out to be not only hiding a past of her own, but also Bucky's very powerful love interest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll place specific trigger warnings for each chapter to make everything easier!  
> But generally, this will contain the depiction of violence (Hydra torture, domestic abuse) and of panic/anxiety attacks. Read only if you feel safe!
> 
> This is set right after The Winter Soldier, and I'm trying to picture how hard it was for Bucky at first, before Bucharest, when he was just dazed and afraid

_He doesn't know who he really is. A name, a picture at a museum, a few terrorizing flashbacks, that's not enough to live by while escaping Hydra._

_And a past that haunts her isn't what she wants to be defined by. She can help Bucky, of course, care for the lost man with the messy mind, but nothing can turn out too well under those circumstances..._

-

**Emma**

I wandered around my kitchen, trying to convince myself to clean last night's leftovers, but dishes were something I despised doing, so I always pretended like I had forgotten until there were no more clean dishes to use, which eventually forced me to fulfil the task. It was a foul habit, not to mention ridiculous since I lived alone, hence when I faked forgetting to do it, I was merely lying to myself. Nevertheless, I honored the tradition and looked away from the dishwasher, opening the fridge.

I searched around for any remaining eggs in order to make myself a proper omelet, something that wasn't delivered to my door in a cardboard box for once. I found myself craving for it right before realizing that I had ran out of eggs. "Of course." I sighed in frustration.

I had no intent in running to the store in my pajamas only to retrieve some miserable eggs, and my next paycheck wasn't due for another day, which meant I had to wait at least 24 hours to go grocery shopping. However, I did think of someone who might have some of those: last night I heard noise in my neighbor's apartment, so I figured she must have returned from her trip.

Ms. Harris spent half her days visiting family, probably due to her age. It was only rational to assume she wanted to spend her last years with her loved ones, and I couldn't blame her for wanting to leave this building as often as possible. The apartments were small, the neighborhood wasn't safe for old ladies... I could bet I was the only person in the entire building that kept actual conversations with her in the hall. Occasionally, I would also ask her tons and tons of favors, and this wasn't the exception: someone who had just gotten back home would have to have bought groceries, I supposed.

I put the slightest effort into fixing my hair so that it, at least, didn't look like I had just gotten out of bed, which was exactly the situation, then put a sweater on top of my tank top in order to protect myself from the low temperature outside my door. It was past noon, a schedule only I seemed to be faithful to, so I was certain that the woman would be awake and up. As soon as I reached her door, I knocked effusively. _Damn, I want that omelet._

After a few seconds, I knocked again. No response. "Ms. Harris, are you there?" I questioned, raising my voice for her to be able to hear me. I heard footsteps yet no vocal answer. Something was definitely wrong, she never ignored me; perhaps she wasn't fond of me but she was too polite to not open her door. "Ms. Harris, is everything alright? You're scaring me."

A full minute of patiently waiting flew by, forcing me to worry even more. I thought of the possibility of entering through her window; one of my external windows was connected to hers on the outside, but it was a long shot considering hers could be closed. However, I had never done that and it certainly was very intruder-like. I decided to be nosy and insist. "I'm gonna go through your window to check on you, okay?"

As soon as those words left my mouth, the door opened, taking me by surprise and startling me. What shocked me even more was the person in front of me: it wasn't Ms. Harris, but a tall, muscular, long-haired and bearded man. It was understandable for me to be taken aback, for I expected a short, chubby and grumpy grey-haired eighty year old.

"She's not here." He spoke out in a very stern tone. "Leave me alone."

I blinked fast a few times, examining his looks. "Are you her so-"

My question was cut off by the door being slammed closed in my face. Without a single word coming from me, I turned in my heels and went back to my apartment. _Guess I'm not having that omelet._

Once back in my tiny one bedroom apartment, I continued to stare at my sink before entirely rejecting that idea. No, I wanted eggs and I would get eggs, but I was aware that Ms. Harris' apartment was no longer a choice. As I put on my coat and scarf, I mentally frowned at the man's manners. _Who was he and why was he there? Never mind, whoever he is doesn't give him the right to speak to you like that._

I took my anger out on the door as I slammed it behind me, leaving for the café across the street.


	2. Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: depiction of a panic attack

**Bucky**

Once I slammed the door, I stepped back, creating distance between the girl and I. Her visit was something I had thought might happen, yet wasn't expecting so quickly. The night before, when I broke in through the window, I saw no sign of anyone living there except for the bed and the very little furniture. Besides those things, it was empty, stockless and lacking any sort of personal items like clothing and whatnot. Perhaps I had jumped into conclusions too quickly, otherwise that girl wouldn't have called for a 'Ms. Harris.'

I walked into the small bathroom to wet my face before staring at myself in the mirror. I had nothing to compare myself other than the pictures I had seen of Sergeant James Barnes from the museum, yet I could tell I looked dreadful. My hair was long, _the guy from the pictures didn't wear it like that, the people at Hydra didn't wear it like that_. The neglected beard added some extra untidiness to the whole picture as well. There was little I wanted more than to remember how I used to dress and comb my hair back when I was Sergeant Barnes.

I remembered some things. After my visit to the museum, the flashbacks were sporadic but informative, for they made me recall the war and my first days at Hydra. I remembered a few soldiers and I remembered how a few men locked me and turned me into the infamous Winter Soldier through a series of torturing methods, which entirety hasn't gotten to my memory yet. Above all, I remembered a few missions, and visions of my metal arm tearing people apart. Killing.

I brushed those thoughts away and put my brown jacket on, as well as some gloves in order to conceal my hand. It was too obvious for civilians not to see. After throwing a jockey to hide my identity even more, I exited the apartment and walked downstairs into the street. It was crowded and noisy, something that detonated my nervousness, which is why I speed walked towards the first café-looking store my eyes reckoned, eager to get off the streets.

"Good morning" a woman around her mid-forties greeted me without much enthusiasm as I approached the counter. "What can I get you?"

Given the growling in my stomach, I answered extremely quickly, not even bothering to look at the options. "The menu breakfast, please." Things might have changed in seventy years but menu breakfasts must still be around.

She slightly smirked, for some reason amused. "A bit late for breakfast, isn't it?" she mocked me.

Hopefully, the woman awaited for no response. I wouldn't know how to answer to that. After a few painfully long minutes, she came back with a plate of toasts, eggs, bacon, and a cup of coffee. I thanked her and reached for the last few dollars in my pocket. Once I handed her the five bucks, she exaggeratedly cleared her throat. I understood she meant I was forgetting to tip her.

"Oh, sorry." I apologized before giving her two more dollars.

It had taken me a few days to understand how the currency had changed, which wasn't too radical, honestly; my biggest problem was acquiring that money. Noticing I had spent my last few bucks, I began examining my surroundings and saw that the man sitting next to me was busy speaking on his mobile phone and drinking his coffee. The moment the waitress left, I reached over to his jacket and cautiously stole his wallet. In a matter of seconds and on the sly, I retrieved all the cash inside, then proceeded to put the object back into the man's pocket.

I had a vague feeling that James Buchanan Barnes wasn't a thief, because I felt bad each time that I did it. However I didn't have much of a choice: there was no safe way to get money to survive since I had to remain hidden. I wished I could simply apply for a job, get my own flat, pay for every meal with my own well-earned money, but that was a luxury I couldn't afford. I was destined to steal and break into people's houses for a roof.

A voice behind me distracted me from my thoughts and my breakfast. "Hey." That was the only words spoken from a feminine voice.

I turned around to face her, a decision that tensed my muscles in every inch of my body. It was the girl that had knocked on my –well, that woman's– door. Even if I had only seen her a few seconds, I recognized a threat when I saw it. I had been trained for it. And yes, at the moment and given our last encounter, she was the definition of a threat.

"I think you owe me an explanation." She continued her accusation, yet seeming more confused than upset. "Earlier, in the apartment?"

I gulped. "Yeah, I..." Immediately, I found myself unable to finish the sentence, making me regret opening my mouth in the first place.

She frowned. "Okay? Um, listen, are you Ms. Harris' son or something?"

"Who?"

The second that syllable escaped my lips, I realized how a simple sound had just blown my cover. I should have just gone along. Now I would have to run again. Except I was tired of running, I was tired of being afraid all the time. Living in paranoia wasn't suiting. These thoughts ran through my mind as I observed the girl stare at me, deciding what to say next.

"Listen, pal, I don't wanna call the cops but if you-"

"Don't." I interrupted her, my face pleading.

I didn't want to run away from any more cops. It was an easy task given my skills, yet the problem was that it put me in Hydra's radar, and I was running out of zones to lay low in. The thought of Hydra finding me terrified me to my core, planting images of the torture I would have to endure again if that happened. I would be frozen, locked away and beaten. They would erase my memory like they have before. The agonizing pain that that procedure caused me entered my thoughts, and I noticed it made my hands sweat and my stomach hurt.

"Why?" her face was plastered with concern. Honest concern. I could tell when people lied to me.

I was unable to answer, for the fear of falling into Hydra's hands again petrified me to my core. The image of them mixing my brain around and melting down my thoughts infiltrated me, and I couldn't fight back. It physically hurt my head, as if the memory of it was transferring to me, sitting at that café counter. The pain rose, and suddenly I could no longer conceal it.

"Are... are you alright?" she tried to reach me, but was muffled by the sense of dizziness that contained me.

I let out a loud sight, grabbing my head with both hands. My legs weakened and my non-metallic hand began to shake. The more I tried to reach for air, in order to send oxygen to my brain, the harder it was to breathe. For some unknown motive, my throat was closing tighter, accompanying the burning sensation that covered my entire head as well as my chest.

 

**Emma**

The man seemed as if he was having the worst migraine of his life right there on the spot. I felt uneasy and impotent, for he didn't even answer me. I could sense that he was choking back screams, but eventually he seemed to be choking for real. People on the café began staring at him, preoccupied, probably thinking he was having some sort of allergic reaction. I for once knew that it wasn't the case. The second I heard him gasp for air I understood.

"Shit." I mumbled, walking closer to him to grab his head and force him to look at me.

"What's wrong with him?" a waitress asked in horror.

"I think he's having a panic attack." I explained, only facing her briefly before returning my sight towards the agonizing man. "A really bad one. He needs water. Please."

I heard her walk away to get it, leaving me with him, who stared at me with confusion in his eyes. "Look at me." I spoke firmly. "Don't look away, just focus on me."

"Here." The middle-aged woman returned and handed me a glass of water.

"Thank you." I wet a napkin on the liquid and pushed it against his forehead. "I need you to close your eyes and breathe."

"Does he need a doctor?" a man sitting next to him asked, apparently very startled by the scene.

"He'll be fine, just give him some space." I ordered the man who did as told. My gaze found the agonizing man's again, who had now his eyes closed. "Stop thinking about your head. It's gonna stop hurting once you breathe. Breathe."

Eventually, he was able to pass some air through his throat and inhale properly. It was a matter of seconds before he was able to calm down and open his eyes. I let go of his head, mostly out of awkwardness, yet not losing his face from my sight. He looked frightened, which is why I felt obligated to reassure him through comforting words.

"We're gonna go to your apartment, okay?" at the sound of that pronoun, he frowned, but followed my lead. I leaned in to whisper. "I'm not gonna call the cops, just go upstairs with me."

He stood up, still pale and sweating, and followed me as we left a very concerned and weirded out café behind. The walk between that street and our floor –well, apparently, not his– was short, yet long enough to make the silence uncomfortable. Eventually I would glance at him and see how tense he was. He seemed as if he was holding back tears. The second he opened his door and we entered the flat, he faced me.

"What did you do? What- What are you doing?" he interrogated me, panting from his previous attack and his current fear.

"Would you calm down? I'm trying to help you." I spat, to which the man gulped, not abandoning his 'ready-to-fight-me' pose. "You were having a panic attack, I couldn't leave you there."

He visibly loosened up and breathed regularly. I walked towards him, yet he flinched and stepped away, so I had to stop in my tracks.

"I just wanna know why you're here. There's not much to steal here, so you're not a thief." I raised an eyebrow as I glanced around the practically empty apartment. "Are you homeless?"

He was silent and motionless for a few moments, but finally nodded. "I guess you could call it that."

I nodded back, still not trusting him fully, for he could be any sort of creep, really. It was then that I realized I was unprotected, but it was too late to change that. "Why were you so scared of me calling the cops?"

He looked defeated. He stepped back even further from me and let himself fall onto the floor against the wall. "I'll leave now, I promise. Just don't call them."

I frowned my frown away. What is this guy's problem with the judicial system? My mind went to dark places, imagining all the things that a man like him could have done to be sought by the police. I forced myself to end those thoughts and simply gathered up the courage to walk towards him and ask him myself.

"What did you do? Why are they after you?"

His eyes went wide, shocked that I would guess the problem. It wasn't too hard to guess if were being honest. As he realized I was waiting for a proper answer, he faced the window again, even more defeated. This time, he looked like I had just beat him on a game.

"That doesn't matter now." He trailed off. "What matters is that if the cops find me, some other people might. Bad people. So please, don't, I'll be on my way."

"No." I stopped him before he could stand up.

Both of our expressions reflected confusion: on his part, he didn't understand what I meant by that, and on my part, I needed to know what he was so scared of, who he was talking about and why.

"Those bad people... will they hurt you?" I questioned him, not moving a muscle for him not to feel threatened, since I expected him to tell me something personal. Instead, he merely nodded. I continued. "Have they hurt you before?"

He didn't reply, however, he didn't have to. The fact that he looked away in somewhat shame revealed the answer to the question. My own self softened at the sight of this stranger. He had just had a severe panic attack in public by just the thought of those people hurting him again. It broke my heart to think how scared and hopeless he was. I couldn't call the cops on him. His pain hit too close to home.

"You're safe here." I assured him.

He looked up at me from the ground, not entirely convinced.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I've met people in your situation. There's nothing I can do but help you lay low." I sighed in mild disbelief of my own words. I was refuging a stranger who was most likely a criminal, and my priority at the moment, before my own security, was to make sure he didn't have another attack.

He didn't thank me nor stand up, for the shock was still painted on his face. It must have been a while since he had someone believe him. Seeing him remembered me of my old friend Brian, a kid that went to my school. His father beat him many times, but he was a local cop, therefore he felt powerless and was never able to denounce him. Last time I heard of Brian, someone told me he was in rehab.

As a matter of fact, this man reminded me of many people I had known. At some point he even reminded me of myself. I tied my hair back, unsure of how to proceed. He was still motionless, staring at me with precaution. The situation was creeping me out already, and the cold and empty apartment only made it worse.

I shivered. "God, this place is freezing." I confessed. "Come, let's go to my place, it's warmer."


	3. That assassin

**Bucky**

I entered the girl's apartment cautiously. I was indecisive about trusting her or not, considering I could not even trust my own memory. It couldn't be easy to simply expect a stranger who had just found out I was running away to help me without getting anything in return. She shut the door behind my awkward body, staring up at me with curious eyes.

"You can sit next to the radiator." She pointed towards a big artefact that didn't look too futuristic, unlike the rest of this world I was cursed in. "And take off your jacket if you want."

I stared down at my arm, realizing I couldn't do as instructed for she would see my bionic arm. I shook my head. "I'm fine." I informed her, only taking off the cap on my head and leaving it on a counter.

She didn't answer, but instead began preparing something in her kitchen, which wasn't separated from the living room. The entire apartment consisted of one big stationary room, one bedroom and a bathroom, just like the place I was breaking into; they were in fact, identically structured, yet hers was nicely arranged. It was also warmer, as she had promised. While I examined the facility, my hands were still sweating, and my breathing remained unstill.

She returned with a cup of steaming liquid in her hands. "Here. It'll make you feel better."

She handed it to me but I didn't move an inch. "What is that?" I questioned her, the mistrust clear in my voice.

She chuckled slightly, amused by my paranoia. "It's just chamomile tea." At the sight of me not moving a muscle, the woman rolled her eyes and took a sip from the beverage to prove there wasn't any harm-provoking substance in it. "See? Not poison. Now, drink before it gets cold."

I received the mug and had a sip. It felt soothing, as if I hadn't had tea for a decade. Then, it hit me: I probably hadn't had tea in almost a century. The last time I had homemade food was before Hydra abducted me, and I didn't remember having tea ever since I escaped the facilities and began my runaway life. Yet again, my memory failed constantly, so perhaps I had paid for a cup of tea at a local café last week and didn't remember doing so.

"Better?" She asked, sitting down on her carpet next to the heating device.

I mimicked her, and lowered my body slowly to sit on the floor. It just felt odd to stare down at her like that. "Better than what?"

Her eyebrows joined, probably confused by me. The way I spoke, the overly concealed image I wore to prevent being recognized from the news... everything about my appearance easily caused confusion. The girl shook her head with a smile, dropping the subject. "Listen, I don't want to push you, I just wanna help. These people that hurt you, why do they want you?"

I shrugged in honesty, because my answer to that question was no lie. "I don't know. They just picked me."

"Picked you for what? You don't have to tell me who they are, but what are they? Like, a cult or something?"

I frowned in rejection of that idea. I couldn't possibly imagine what she was thinking had happened to me, but she clearly wasn't taking the right guess. "What? No. They're... an organization, I guess."

She simply nodded. I was taken aback by her reaction to this information. Anyone else would be calling the cops by now, however this girl was rather intrigued by the situation. After a whole minute of silence, hearing nothing more than my sipping of the calming tea, she looked back into my eyes, painfully eager for answers.

"They have power, don't they?" She continued the interrogation, seriousness leading her facial expression. "That's why you can't ask the police for help."

Finally, my patience was lost. "I won't talk about this anymore." I warned her, putting down the cup.

"Okay, I'm sorry. Just one more question." I rolled my eyes but she spoke anyways, completely ignoring my evident annoyance. "What's your name?"

This time, I was shocked into quietness. For decades my name had been 'soldier'. On the other hand, the museum I had visited, the one with information on my past self said that it was 'James Buchanan Barnes', alias 'Bucky'. The name rang a bell, even if I had the tiniest memory of that person, but I knew it would be too revealing to give her my full name. If I indeed was a war hero like the museum claimed, I doubt it would be hard to link back to a dead 1940's soldier.

Before knowing, my mouth was responding quicker than my brain. "Bucky."

She gave me a small smile, which turned me doubtful of my choice of words. Perhaps Bucky wasn't a popular nickname now. "I'm Emma." She introduced herself as well. "Listen, Bucky, I won't rat on you. But you can't keep breaking into people's homes. What if Ms. Harris comes back?"

Her worry amused me for motives I could not tell her; I had been a deadly super soldier and a highly trained assassin, I was capable of hearing a key on a lock and escape before being seen. "If she does, I'll leave."

She sent me a disapproving glare. I couldn't blame her, she didn't know I had done it for a month. "Alright."

Once again, both of us fell into sepulchral silence. The nothingness in the room lasted a few minutes. I felt uncomfortable while staring at her, Emma, therefore I merely gazed out the window on top of us, uncertain if she examined my face or not. At some point I decided to find out the last thing, which led me to face her with my regular neutral expression, only to find her too focused on my hair.

"What?" I practically spat.

She squinted her eyes. "When was the last time you had a proper shower?"

I tried my best not to be offended by her question, something I wouldn't have even thought about back in Hydra's headquarters. This time, I shrugged, mildly embarrassed. "I guess it's time to have one?" I admitted.

She giggled a bit, standing up. "You can use mine, I think you could use a nice bathroom."

I knew she was referring to how empty and unclean my current flat looked like, and was offering me a little hospitality taking my stressful runaway life in consideration. I still could not comprehend why a stranger would do these things for me. Perhaps it was out of pity, after the pathetic scene she had witnessed back in the café. Or perhaps I had gotten too used to the abuse and torture, something that had disabled me from accepting any act of kindness.

I decided to fight that Nazi-implanted instinct, and agreed to her offer.

**Emma**

If I'm completely honest, the anxiety that caused allowing a fugitive and mildly scary stranger shower in my house was strong. He was so full of mysteries, it made me question everything he had said and done so far, but I would feel too guilty if he was being honest and I didn't show him any sort of hospitality. Truth is, he looked so frail and frightened for a guy so big, I instinctively felt the need to help him in any way that I could.

I ran the shower for him and let him know it was ready, to which he entered the bathroom and shut the door, thanking me, my cue to give him some space. Afterward a minute or two, my good manners exceeded my nervousness and decided to go to my bedroom to fetch clean towels, but once I had found one, I heard the water stop, meaning he had already exited, and I realized my intention would be pointless now. An unsettling feeling grew inside me thinking of him using my already used towel to dry himself, so I thought about doing something nice instead and allow him to wear something different from his dirty clothes.

I searched for one of my many male hoodies I loved to use as pajamas and went to offer him one, considering those were my only clothes that would fit him. "Bu-bucky?" I stuttered awkwardly while waiting outside of the bathroom for him.

After long minutes of patience and silence, I figured he would be dressed by now, otherwise what could he possibly be doing in the bathroom, in all quietness?

It was my bathroom after all, therefore I felt the right to insist even if it meant invading his privacy; it was in order to help him.

"Bucky." I said, this time more firmly, knocking on the wooden door. No answer. I rolled my eyes and proceeded to turn the handle. "Alright, I'm coming in..."

The second the door was slightly open, my eyes went to his naked torso. He was wearing his dusty jeans and seemed as if he had been staring in the mirror all this time, wet hair and face, at least before I barged in, which had caused him to stand back in shock. However, the shock was mine, as I widened my eyes in terror of what was in sight: one of his arms was fully metallic. He had an actual robotic arm stuck to his body.

"I- I brought you..." my mouth trailed off faster than my brain, while I tried to take in the information.

The man in front of me seemed just as scared, something understandable since he was exposed in all sense of the word, facing me who had invaded him unexpectedly. I don't know what other reaction he could have had to that sort of situation.

Finally, I was able to move and hand him the hoodie from a ridiculous distance. "I brought you this." My voice was smaller than expected.

He received the item without unlocking our gazes, confusion and expectancy written all across his bearded face. The biggest shock was how familiar he looked now, as if I hadn't recognized him before, but now... I had a terrible feeling about the man in my bathroom, and not simply because of the metal arm and the scars around the object. I began stepping back in a painfully low pace, unable to get a grasp of what this bad feeling meant. Once his body executed the tiniest movement, the robotic fabric expressing the smallest motion, the realization hit me like a truck. I had seen him before. In the news.

My eyes widened even more, which I didn't know was possible. "You're...."

The pace in which I walked backwards fastened, yet he also began walking forward, seemingly having understood that I'd recognized his hidden persona.

"You're that assassin." I let out in fear, attempting to reach my kitchen where I would feel safer surrounded by sharp objects to defend myself. "From TV."

He shook his head. "That wasn't me, I promise." His hands motioning that he wouldn't attack, as if it were supposed to make me feel better.

"The government's looking for you." I stated, horrified.

"They are." He agreed, making me frown desperately. "So are the bad people, and I promise you..."

"Get out of my house." I cut him off.

The entirety of the flat went painfully silent for a few seconds, while Bucky and I maintained a gaze fight. After a few seconds of barely detaching our eye contact, only to look around for a defensive object. Eventually, I was able to find a near knife. I reached out for it rapidly for the man to take notice. His only reaction to my attempt to protect myself was a defeated sigh.

I took a deep breath. "Get out." I repeated firmly, yet feeling insecure with this person in my house. I decided to give him a chance to leave on his own, mostly because the idea of chasing him out myself didn't seem like a good one, so it was more of a chance for me to escape. I fetched my keys and went for the door. "When I come back I want you gone, or I'll call the cops."

Before allowing him to defend himself or respond anything whatsoever, I was out of the apartment, speed-walking into the streets and towards the hair salon where I would feel safer, as if this whole mess had never occurred.

I wasn't meant to arrive to work up until an hour later, given the situation I had had to escape from. After greeting my coworkers with a forced smile, considering how little I wanted to be nice at the moment, and with some time to kill, I grabbed my phone. It was malfunctioning, much like my apartment and the entire neighborhood while we're at it, but I managed to surf the net and find some information on the assassin: his given nickname was The Winter Soldier. He was brutally strong and had been a legend until he made a public appearance not long ago. Too many websites later, I noticed my shift had begun, so I got my apron on, ready to work. I tried to act as normal as possible, trying to take my mind off of the fact that there was a well-renowned assassin in my house at that very moment.

Life as a hair stylist wasn't what I had expected, but after dropping out of college, I wasn't left with many alternatives regarding the payment of my rent. I had enough saved to treat myself every other day and never went hungry, which meant I couldn't complain too much. I tried my best to focus on the red hair dye I was applying on a customer, yet my mind kept trailing off to the fugitive. Perhaps I had made a mistake. Perhaps he was being honest when he showed himself vulnerable, and maybe there was an ethical explanation to the whole Winter Soldier thing. Nevertheless, he was a highly dangerous assassin either way; I couldn't risk myself being near him.

Hours later my shift had ended and I had to turn back home, praying to god that I wouldn't find him anywhere, which made the short walk feel like an eternity. It made the staircase feel like a mile under my cautious feet. When I snuck the key to unlock my door, the immediate feeling that my wish hadn't come true hit me harder than expected, for the man was automatically revealed, staring right back at me.

It was as if he had sensed me coming from feet away, and was therefore standing in the middle of my flat, ready to welcome me home, a home I had specifically asked him to abandon. I had no other way to respond than to freeze in sight of the threat in my presence, holding the handle of my door to dear life. After all, he could have a million reasons to stay.

I took a deep, shaky breath before speaking. "I told you to leave." I did my best at seeming non-terrified.

He lowered his head in somewhat shame. "I know... I was leaving, I swear, I just..."

"Bucky." I interrupted, my voice suddenly pleading; if he was attempting some sort of mind game, I would know, I was certain of that.

He merely stared back without any eye contact, confusion plastered all over his face. Suddenly I noticed his body language: uncertain, nervous, toying with the hem of his jacket's arm, not moving one inch closer to me and avoiding my gaze. He was vulnerable. Or at least I wanted to believe he was.

"It's gonna sound real stupid." He confessed before scratching the back of his neck.

Needless to say, I was intrigued, which is why I spoke more tenderly than I probably should have. "Try me."

Bucky's eyes responded directly at my voice, mildly lighting up before frowning a bit, preparing for what he was about to blurt out. "I, uhm... I wanted to ask if I could take some of that tea with me."

At the sound of that, my eyes squinted hard enough to form a fulminating gaze. "The tea?" I asked, almost speechless.

This scary assassin is on the run from the government, breaking into people's homes, and he comes back to politely ask for some tea?

Bucky nodded. "It really soothed me. I'd never had it before. Can I take some with me?" He motioned past me, expressing his intention to leave as I had ordered him to.

My lungs were incapable of not filling out with air at the sound of that sentence, feeling the possibility to breathe again. He wasn't dangerous, but entirely the opposite. From where I was standing, the man was no more than a lost pitbull, stray and confused and powerful but harmless unless I stood as I threat to him. I did a mental note to not do that.

After that enormous sigh, I relaxed my shoulders. "I'm so going to regret this." I closed my eyes for a brief second as I rubbed my temple. "You can stay."

The response wasn't immediate. It took Bucky a fair amount of silent time to finally grasp what that meant and for him to open his eyes wide. I could see him clench his jaw and raise his chest up and down through his dirty sweater. He hadn't put on the hoodie I had offered him.

"Wha- why?" His mouth was wrapped in a dazy pout.

Still not letting go of the door handle, I raised my shoulders lightly in a sign of uncertainty. Then, I showed myself a bit more serious. "That doesn't mean I trust you. I read about you, but I need real answers."

He nodded profusely before I shut the door behind me and crossed my arms against my chest. There were too many questions in my head, the obvious one being are you still trying to kill people? But I figured the answer was a tad clear at that point. I decided to go for an easy one that had been navigating my nerves all day.

"How old are you?" I blurted out, thinking of how the so called legend stated he had been sighted throughout the past decades.

Bucky cringed a little but not enough to bring any sort of emotion to his face. "That's... complicated." He waited for me to reply, but given how unsatisfied I was left with his answer, the long pause of silence eventually forced him to continue. "The museum said I was born in 1917."

Instead of responding facially to the insanely impossible statement, I merely blinked a few times, quickly. "A museum said you're, like, a hundred years old." I repeated his words unimpressed.

He nodded again. "It also said my name is, uhm... James Buchanan Barnes." The name was brought up like a child would recite a poem in front of the class, as if he had memorized it but it made absolutely no sense to him. "Sergeant Barnes. Killed in action in 1945 but... here I am."

I made a mental note to google what he was talking about, because there were only two options in sight of how brutally honest he seemed: either he was speaking the truth and somehow had survived and had been under the control of these bad people he talked about, or he was positively insane and fully convinced of his story.

"The bad people..." I brought up the subject ringing in my brain. "Who are they?"

The man swallowed hard and simply spoke. "HYDRA."

For once in his narration something made sense to me. Hydra was the organization that had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D a few months ago. Topping that with the shameful look on his face, the narrative was finally starting to add up. I raised a hand to his arm where his clothes and brown leather gloves covered the metal.

"Did... Hydra do that to you?" I struggled to get the words out.

His jaw visibly clenched again, this time strongly enough to move his temple. He didn't even motion to his arm like any other person would, but instead simply looked down without the slightest movement of his head. "Among other things." He replied.

That really was it for me. To take a leap of faith and trust him. To give him something a little bit stable.

My body abandoned the doorframe, all remaining of fear leaving my body as I left it shut behind me. "I'll set the couch for you later."

His big body turned as I walked past him, following me with his gestures instead of his feet. He seemed rather astonished, seeing me walk towards the fridge as he merely stood there.

"Thank you." I heard him say almost under his breath.


	4. Post-its

**Bucky**

_The lights in the room shone brighter than usual, nearly blinding me. I lifted my arm to protect my face from the impact, leaving my metallic one behind, since seeing my human skin made me feel less like a machine. I began lowering my hand once my eyes adjusted to the powerful white color, only to take in very depressing surroundings: it was the room where they erased my memory, one of the few places I could recall vividly. A few men stared down at me as I sat on a medical chair, shirtless, exposed._

_"Now, stay still." A man with a lab cloak said in thick German accent._

_Before I could react, my flesh was receiving a small amount of pain as the man introduced a needle in my shoulder. All I could do about it was stare at him with questioning eyes. I was there to fulfill my duties, not to object nor protest against the procedures. The people around me began placing their hands on me and I knew what was coming next; my heart raced and a wave of fear overtook me, but I still obeyed and laid down on my back, ready for the torment. Afterwards, my hands were tied, they were placing the needed artefacts onto my forehead and temples, and a metal mouthguard was pushed through my lips onto my teeth to protect them from the gritting I was about to endure..._

 

"Hey!" A female voice woke me up from my nightmare.

As I burst my eyes open, she stepped back in shock, given how unexpectedly fast I woke up. I only then realized I was drenched in my own sweat, breathing heavily, and a full mess displayed on top of an unknown sofa. I didn't recognize the place, I didn't remember where I had fallen asleep. A hand was gently placed on the wet fabric of the shirt that was sticking to my torso. I looked up from the gesture to see the girl kneeling next to the couch I was on, and saw worry on her eyes.

"It's okay, it was just a bad dream." She said softly.

I blinked a few times before the memories returned to my embarrassed self. Finally recalling who she was and how I had gotten there, basically remembering the last week of my life, I sat straighter, to which she removed her palm from my body.

"I'm sorry." I mumbled, too ashamed to face her. "Did I wake you?"

The only reason I was able to look down at her was to see her reaction. She shook her head with a frail smile, then awkwardly stood up from the floor and onto the attached kitchen, without a word. I stared at Emma as she opened the fridge and fetched what I figured would be breakfast.

"What was it about?" She questioned while working on what I assumed to be the water-boiling device. At my lack of response, she turned around to look at me and insisted. "The dream. Was it about the bad people?"

I simply nodded, then abandoned the couch in order to walk over the counter. "I think it always is."

She squinted her eyes a little and proceeded to fix two mugs of coffee. The young woman appeared to be thinking hard about something while she prepared the beverages. At last, both of them were ready and she handed me the blue mug, which I carefully received through extremely slow motions.

After taking one sip, Emma rested her hand on the counter and looked deep into my eyes, which made me feel unsure even about the way I was standing. "Is it amnesia?" She asked without warning, yet after seeing how unresponsive and clueless I was, she rephrased it. "Did you lose your memory? Of your past?"

I nodded slowly, careful not to lose sight of the mug in my hand. "I have... flashes, sometimes. I remember random things."

"Good or bad?" She was far too quick at coming up with replies, as if she had structured them ahead. "Because it could be caused by PTSD."

"What's that?" I spoke before taking a sip of the steaming coffee, avoiding as much eye contact as possible.

"Well, it would mean that you had such a traumatic experience that the trauma made you forget." Her hands moved in explaining gestures, fully sure of her words as if she was some kind of expert on the subject.

Perhaps she was. I didn't really know anything about her.

I shook my head lightly and stared down at my naked feet. "Maybe. But I'm pretty sure... they messed with my brain." As soon as my head rose to check her face, the look of concern on it made me look back down. "Or something."

Emma placed the mug on the counter and paced towards a cabinet under the flat television. After scattering for a few seconds in the mess, she pulled out a box of colors, or at least that was the best way of describing it. Eventually, as she approached me, the box became separate and flatter, each holding one single bright color.

The girl placed them next to our coffees and handed me a pen. "Now, tell me something awful you remember. I won't judge, I promise."

My hesitant fingers could only hold the pen way too strongly, as if it could fall easily. I swallowed hard, then spoke without much confidence. "I remember... shooting."

"Someone in particular?"

Flashes of all the paralyzed people I had been sent to kill flew my sight. I couldn't tell her that. Instead, I went for a lighter yet no less true answer.

"No. Soldiers. I remember shooting them from afar, we were at war."

"Good. Out of these colors, which do you like the least and the worst? Which makes you feel calm?" She gestured towards the colorful pieces of paper stuck together, continuing with a sort of plan or procedure I was far from getting a grasp on.

"I like the green." I pointed to the neon papers, then at the bright pink ones. "I don't like those."

Emma told me to write down the shootings and everything bad I could recall into the pink post-its, as she called them, including Hydra's faces, names, the mind erasure procedure, every single death. She examined me thoroughly as I did.

I was worn out and my hands were almost shaking when she handed me the green ones and told me to write everything good that I could remember; smells, places from before the war, any small image from my childhood.

The final look of the emptied wall, holding every piece of memory in my system written in small notes seemed to make Emma proud. She said she had learnt the trick at some group, but refused to answer what kind of group it was, very abruptly. Apparently, I wasn't the only ones with secrets.

"So when you remember something, you stick it on the wall." She explained, looking at the two colors instead of me. I was staring at her. "And if you get a panic attack, you come here and focus on the green notes."

"Thank you." My voice came out more vulnerable than I had hoped for, my eyes not leaving her person, feeling nothing but stillness and gratitude.

She turned to face me, and her pride vanished a little to give room for a concealed look of embarrassment. Perhaps I was staring too much. I was being weird.

"It's nothing." She smiled lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

I understood I was making her uncomfortable and looked away.

 

**Emma**

After a long day at the salon, I went to pick up Chinese food and walked home. I didn't feel like cooking and the guest in my flat didn't look like a man that skips dinner. The notes trick had been a total success, which was a surprise considering I had learnt it from a group mate that told me it hadn't worked on them. I didn't want to tell Bucky about the group, which was ridiculous if I thought about all that he had confessed me. I guessed it was just something I disliked talking about in general.

As I entered home, I found him sitting on the floor with a book on his hands, but I could tell he had heard me come in from far away. His eyes trailed to the bag of food in my hands.

"What are you reading?" I asked in all curiosity as I shut the door behind me.

He stood up and placed the object on the TV counter with extreme care. "Room." The name rolled out of his tongue as if he'd memorize it.

"Emma Donoghue?" I double-checked even though I was sure of the author's name, to which he nodded. "Hard read. You kinda remind me of the boy in the story."

He was unable to hide a small grin before sitting on the counter chair, where I was unpacking the takeout. Two pages into the book was a boy trapped in a room he knows as the only thing in the world, with a language limited to his own complex experience. It sounded familiar.

Seeing how confused he was at the food, I showed him how to work the microwave so that he could reheat his own meal, given how tired and not at all hungry I was. After a quick goodbye, I locked myself in my room and put on pajamas to get in bed.

My phone vibrated. Alice. I clicked on the screen to talk to my best friend. "You know there's this thing called texting..."

She laughed at the other end. "I wouldn't have to call just to hear your voice if we actually saw each other more often." Her powerful voice replied with a hint of false offense.

I laughed into the microphone. "I know, I'm sorry, you know I suck at... people." She hummed in approval, and I ran my hand through my face thinking of that one people across the door. "How ironic."

"What?"

"Nothing, I just... I'm having a guest. He's... odd." I tried to explain without sounding insane, considering how, in fact, insane the real situation was.

"They're a he?" She raised her pitch.

I sighed and attempted to lie effectively. "Yeah, he's, uhm... not from around here. Kind of a lost puppy, really."

All I heard was chuckle at the end of the line. "Do you want to get murdered in your own home?" At the sound of that, my head immediately went for apparently, but decided against it. "Listen, just lock your room with key and don't get in his pants, alright?"

My palm flew to my mouth in shock, as a way to conceal my laughter. "Jesus, Alice, I won't."

"Good." I could hear the music playing in the background, probably from one of her roommates, and it probably was driving her insane. "By the way, how is the old love life? Nothing's changed over here."

"Same here." My lungs filled with an excessive amount of air only to release immediately. "It's for the best, after all."

Her hum of disapproval was so loud I could've heard it without a phone call. "You really never change."

A few minutes later, my yawns were a signal to hang up, and go to bed. Although not without making sure Bucky had turned off the lights in the rest of the house.


End file.
